


into thine parlour

by occasionallynotsafe



Category: South Park
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Background Kyman, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Eventual Happy Ending, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Teacher-Student Relationship, the Stenny is endgame but their relationship is still in focus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-25 16:40:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16201493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/occasionallynotsafe/pseuds/occasionallynotsafe
Summary: There's a new teacher at school. And sure, Stan finds himself carrying a big, fat crush on the guy, but he'd never even suspected that he'd end up in the guy's spiderweb, wrapped in silk and laid out for dinner.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> please reread the tags before reading.  
> this fic does, **in no way** , support real life teacher-student relationship, or an age gap of this magnitude. this is a darkfic, and if you can't handle it, then please don't try and read it. take care of yourself instead

_The Spider turned him round about, and went into his den,_

_For well he knew the silly Fly would soon come back again:_

_So he wove a subtle web, in a little corner sly,_

_And set his table ready, to dine upon the Fly._

\- "The Spider and the Fly", by Mary Howitt.

* * *

 

 

It doesn’t take long before the whole school knows about the new teacher.

The news break over the week, razes its way to every student, and by Monday, everyone is abuzz with excitement. There’s hushed whispers, muffled giggling, and murmured theorising, long and scrambled guessing games about what gender they’ll be, their appearance, anything and everything.

And it’s not that Stan _isn’t_ interested- he’d been volleying back and forth with the guys all throughout the week, had stayed up late last night texting with Kenny, a mile long conversation that had, eventually, degraded into nothing more than _but what if they had like, hugemoungus badongers_ , which had left Stan choking on laughter, face smushed into his pillow, but. Really.

It’s a new teacher. It’s another old guy who’ll talk their ears off, who’ll try and teach them shit they don’t care about, and it’s not really _that_ big a deal. So maybe Stan’s as excited to see the new teacher as everyone else, but he’s ready to get this over with, to be let down by another boring, stuffy adult, and have everyone _stop_ talking about it.

Stan’s trudging his way to class, earbuds jammed into his ears in a vain attempt to drown out everyone’s conspiracies, when a shoulder bounces against his.

“Hey,” and it’s Kenny, peeking his head around to smile at Stan, dimples and sun-gold eyes, and Stan wedges out an earbud. “You excited?”

He rolls his eyes. “No,” and his lips twitches into a smile. “Maybe a little.”

Kenny laughs- falls into step with Stan, and their shoulders bump, again and again, a purposeful move that makes Stan smile wider and wider.

“You think their boobs are gonna be huge?”

“ _Pft_. No. It’s gonna be another elderly man, dude. Guarantee.”

Kenny wriggles his eyebrows. “ _Ooh_ , sexy. You gonna fuck him?”

Stan laughs. Bumps their shoulders together, and the classroom door is looming up ahead. “Jealous?”

Kenny snorts. Doesn’t answer, because they're stepping into the classroom, which is a cave of noise; teenagers talking above each other, Cartman and Kyle arguing in the front, and Kenny slips away with nothing more than a backwards glance.

Stan rolls his eyes; the smile stays on his face, though, and he dumps his bag on his desk, kicks out the chair to sit down, and it’s right in that moment, as his ass hits the seat, that the new teacher walks in.

Stan’s known he’s not totally straight since, basically forever. It’s just one of those things, unimportant and stowed away in the back of his head for later, like his blood type or that he’s an omega, and it has never _mattered_ , is the thing.

And then the teacher walks in. Quick, purposeful strides, a face made out of strong lines, handsome and _gorgeous_ , and the whole damn classroom _plummets_ into silence.

This is not an old dude.

Stan stares. He’s pretty sure the whole _classroom_ is staring, as the teacher puts down his brown, professional as hell bag, and turns to the chalkboard. Stan’s eyes fall to the guy’s ass without his say-so.

“My name,” the guy says, and his voice is like satin wrapped around steel, soft and yet commanding, and every base instinct of Stan’s is sitting _up_. “Is Matt Cohen.”

He ends his sentence with a flourish of his hand, swirling the end of the _n_ into a twirl, and he turns back to the room, eyes gliding over them.

And then they fall on Stan; they nail him to the _spot_ , steals his fucking breath away.

Maybe it’s Stan’s imagination. Maybe it’s in his head. But it looks like the teacher _smiles_.

“And I’m your new math teacher.”

It’s never mattered that Stan’s bi. It’s never been a big _deal_ , just like it’s never mattered that he’s an omega. But right now, staring at this dude’s smile, it’s never mattered _more_.

Because holy hell, Stan’s really fucking _gay_.

* * *

_**dude** _

_**he’s hot** _

_i noticed_

_**dude. dude** _

_**you owe me money** _

_omg i didn’t make a bet w u_

_**you said** _

_**and i quote** _

“ _ **he’s totally some old dude. i guarantee it.”**_

_that’s not word for word like_

_at all_

_**just give me money stan :(** _

_ugh. fine_

_i’ll buy u lunch_

* * *

Kenny suggests they eat at McDonalds.

He’s all gold. Dimples and sunshine, the most annoying smile on this planet, and Stan doesn’t have the heart to say no.

So they go to McDonalds. Stan buys them a cheap cheeseburger each, some fries to share, and two milkshakes. They sit outside, camped out on one of the rickety old benches, and Kenny lunges at the food like he’s been starving for days.

“Don’t you ever eat,” Stan says, tone bland, and takes a sip of his chocolate milkshake. Watches as Kenny devours his burger, and then starts in on the fries, fingers still messy with sauce.

“No,” Kenny says, around three fries. “I starve.”

Stan rolls his eyes. Nudges at Kenny’s knee with a shoe, and when Kenny looks up at him, hair falling into his eyes, Stan nods at his unopened burger.

Kenny hesitates. His eyes flicker between the burger and Stan. “Dude. Are you sure?”

Stan shrugs. For some reason he’s not hungry; his stomach is a fluttery mess, knotted up and twisted in on itself, and the milkshake is more than enough.

Kenny chews at his cheek; then, when Stan doesn’t do anything but sip his milkshake, he snaps forward, tears the paper off and inhales the burger in like, three bites.

“You’re going to choke,” Stan points out, and Kenny wipes at his face, smears ketchup over the back of his hand. Swallows down a burp.

“Then I’ll die happy,” he answers, shrugs, and smiles like he’s got a star behind his teeth, all shiny and breathtaking, and Stan throws a fry at his face.

“Stop that,” he says, and Kenny laughs, snatches the fry off the table and eats it in one big bite.

“So, what’s up? You got all dazy during class.”

Stan’s face flush. He had hoped no one had noticed the way he had zoned out, had drifted off. He can’t remember anything from math, except Mr. Cohen’s body, and his hands and his _face_ , and Stan drops his head into his hands, groans.

“O _ohoho_ ,” Kenny leans in, eyebrow wiggling. “Am I getting a whiff of something _interesting_?”

“No,” Stan mumbles into his palms. “You aren't. Because we’re on suppressants.”

Kenny _pfts_. “As if something meager like that can block out my _superior alpha senses_ . And lemme tell ya’, I’m smelling a _crush_.”

God, if only Stan could smother himself to death with his own, two hands.

“He’s a teacher,” he murmurs, because trying to tell Kenny that _no_ , he _doesn’t_ have a crush is useless. “And he’s like. Old.”

Kenny snorts. “Like that matters. It’s a _crush_ , Stan.” and whoops, suddenly Kenny’s being serious, and Stan raises his head from his palm, unsurprised to meet Kenny’s eyes.

And Kenny’s got pretty eyes. Amber-gold, unnatural, and they’re serious, heavy. Intense. Stan barely manages to bite down a smile.

“C’mon,” Kenny leans closer. “He’s hot. You’re allowed to want his man babies.”

Stan sputters. Laughs, then, and Kenny leans back, smile satisfied.

“That’s gross,” Stan says, between laughter. “Kenny, _please_. He’s just-” he trails off, because suddenly he’s thinking about Mr. Cohen again. And it’s just like during math, his mind wandering and shifting away, suddenly too caught up in imagining Mr. Cohen’s lean body and his big hands, and-

“Dude,” Kenny’s voice is amused. “You’re going to kick yourself into a heat, going like that.”

Stan chokes. Splutters. Reaches out and gets a handful of fries, throws them in Kenny’s _stupid, dumb face_ , and Kenny laughs, bright and vivid, and ugh, Stan hates him.

“Shut up,” he mumbles, and his face is red, it definitely is. “That’s not how it works.”

Kenny grins teasingly. “Ya’ sure? Because I think I can smell you getting sli-” and _nope_. Stan lunges across the table, nearly manages to catch Kenny by the strings of his parka, except Kenny tips backwards, a laugh startled out of him, and hits the dirt with a grunt.

“Oh my god,” Stan says, fingers flexing in the air. “Literally shut up.”

Kenny laughs, mockingly, from the ground. Stan sits back down, and shoves a handful of fries in his mouth as revenge.

Because fuck Kenny.

* * *

_**are you gonna jack off to him tho** _

_kenny_

_i will kill you_

_**LOL** _

_**sure stan ;)** _

_**see ya tomorrow** _

* * *

“Sooo… New teacher?”

Stan bites down a sigh. Stabs his fork into one of the three potatoes left on his plate, and considers just not answering.

Randy’s still looking at him, though. Curious. Annoying. And Stan hates his dad, he _really does_ , because apparently he is just not allowed to forget all about Mr. Cohen’s ass, or his hands, or his face.

Cheeks warm, Stan angrily bites his potato in half. “Y _hr_.”

“Stan,” his mom chides. “Don’t speak with your mouth full.”

Stan rolls his eyes. Chews pointly, and scrapes his fork through the gravy. Swallows. “Yeah. Mr. Cohen. He’s the new math teacher.”

Randy drums his fingers on the table. The sound of utensils scraping across plates fills the room, underscored by the faint ticking of the clock. Dinner’s awkward, as it always seems to be these days.

“That’s good,” Randy murmurs. “Is he, uh- any good?”

“Dunno,” Stan answers, and hates himself a bit, because his mind immediately goes to the gutter, and this is. Really not the time to be thinking about _that_. “It’s his first day.”

His stomach is knotting up, twisting together, and suddenly he’s not hungry. Suddenly he just wants to lock himself in his room and _not think_ , and Stan’s cheeks are warm, annoyingly so, and yeah, no. He isn’t doing this.

“Can I be excused?” he asks, loudly, and pushes his plate away. “I’m full.”

Sharon looks at him, then his plate. There’s still some scrapes left, but it’s mostly all eaten, and so she nods, lets him go with a “put your plate in the sink” and a “remember to do your homework,” the first of which takes a second or two, and the second of which he’s 0% interested in thinking about right now.

He hurries up the stairs. Takes it two steps at a time, and when he gets inside his bedroom, he locks the door behind him.

His heart is hammering. His face is flushed. Stan hates himself, sharply and bitterly, because _of course_ he’d get a fucking _hard on_ for the new teacher.

He groans. Throws himself on his bed and presses his palms to his face, and his eyes sting.

This is terrible. The actual worst.

Because Stan’s fourteen. Because Stan’s a fourteen year old _student_ , and there is _no way_ this teacher would even look at him, and Stan knows that’s for the best, but shit. What he wouldn’t _do_ for this guy to touch him, to kiss him- to pin him down and _fuck_ him, and Stan’s whole face burns.

He flips over. Buries his face in his pillow, and pushes down the urge to scream. Because this sucks. This sucks _balls_ , and Stan knows he’s not supposed to be with anyone till he’s like, older or something, but he’s a fourteen year old teenager, and he _really just_ wants someone to fuck him.

“Stupid puberty,” he mumbles. “Stupid omega-ness. Stupid hot dumb teacher.”

He breathes out. Shifts so his arms are beneath his pillow, nuzzles into a more comfortable position. He’s not tired, not really; but this is cozy, nice. He feels warm. And sure there’s heat pooled in his stomach, a spark between his legs, but it’s distant, far off. It almost feels good.

His eyes slip close. His breath evens out.

Stan falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've been itching to write an abusive teacher-student story for a while, and with the new South Park season, well...
> 
> i couldn't resist
> 
> the A/B/O dynamics will become more prominent as we go on, though it probably won't be the exact same as most others. mostly because i haven't really read that much A/B/O, so i'm just kind of doing my own thing


	2. Chapter 2

Stan wakes, hard and wet.

He blinks up at the ceiling. His thighs are sticky. His stomach churns with heat. The spot between his legs _throbs_ , and his breath is a rattling thing in his chest.

For a long, hanging moment, Stan can’t even think.

Vaguely, he remembers the dream- a head between his legs, a mouth on his slit. He thinks the head was dark-haired. Is pretty sure it was Mr. Cohen, eating him out.

Stan groans.

Apparently, falling asleep _had not_ magically solved his hard on issue. In fact, it kind of just made everything worse.

Stan throws his blanket aside; isn’t surprised to see that someone (probably his mom) had taken off his pants during the night, leaving him in nothing but his boxers and his t-shirt. There’s a dark wet spot on the front of his underwear, and Stan can actually smell his own slick. He wriggles his nose.

This is, to say it mildly, fucking disgusting.

He sighs. Flops back down, and reaches over to check his phone. He’s got over an hour to get ready, so that’ll be enough time to take a nice, cold shower.

Because at this point, not jacking off is a matter of _principle_. This crush is pointless and stupid, and Stan _is not_ going to feed it by fantasting about Mr. Cohen fingerfucking up, or eating him out, or-

His dick twitches. The tent in his underwear wriggles annoyingly. Stan hates his entire fucking life.

Whatever. He puts his phone aside, swings himself out of bed. The feeling of slick running down his thigh is skin-crawling, and he grimaces as he pads out his room, double-checking that the hallway is clear and the bathroom is free.

Thankfully, for once it’s clear. There’s no Randy or Shelly or _anyone_ , and so Stan locks the door behind him, throws his underwear in the sink to soak (because _no way_ is he letting his mom know about this) and steps into the shower.

He starts by washing his hair, furiously refusing to acknowledge his still-hard dick. His thighs are legit covered in slick, translucent fluid that makes his thighs stick together, and he hates the way it feels, all slippery and, well, slick. So he makes sure to rinse it off, face flushing as he stares down at himself.

He hates this.

Stan’s never really hated these two parts of himself- has never really bothered thinking about what being an omega is like, because beside the yearly suppressant shot, it doesn’t really come into effect until he ‘matures’. Sure, he has a slit and he apparently smells good to alphas, but it’s never been a big _deal_.

And it’s not like Stan’s never had a crush before. He and Wendy’s been dating on and off for years, only properly ending it two years ago, but somehow, this is- different.

He’s had wet dreams before. Has daydreamed about someone getting him off, or tonguing at his slit, but it’s always been purposeful, in a way. It’s never been something he hadn’t _wanted_ , but now suddenly it is, and he can’t make it stop.

Stan bites down at his lip. His eyes sting, and he’s still leaking, and suddenly it’s not annoying- suddenly it’s _terrible_ and awful, and the actual worst, and all Stan wants to do is curl up in bed and cry.

There’s a knock at the door. “C’mon, turd!” Shelly yells, and her voice makes him jump. “Hurry the fuck up!”

Stan wipes at his face. Sniffs. Turns the water temperature down, and hisses through his teeth as it hits his skin, cold as ice.

But he grits his teeth, finishes washing himself off. And when he climbs out, skin pink and tender, his dick is flaccid and there’s no stupid slick between his thighs.

* * *

“You okay?”

Stan blinks. Kyle’s face hovers inches from his, and Stan jerks, heart tripping up in his chest. “Fu- _Jesus_ , Kyle.”

He presses a palm to his chest, breathes out hard. “You scared the literal shit out of me.”

Kyle gives him a bland, deadpan look, and pulls away. “Really, dude? I’ve been calling your name for a whole minute.”

Stan blinks. Opens his mouth. Closes it again.

“Oh,” he says, and he really hadn’t realising he’d been zoning out. “Sorry?”

Kyle shakes his head. His curls bounce and twist, catch at the light, and it’s still a treat, seeing Kyle without his ushanka.

“It’s fine,” Kyle looks at him out of the corner of his eyes, a pointed look that makes Stan hunch his shoulders. “Are you okay, though? And don’t lie.”

Stan shrugs. Punches his hands into his pockets, rubs an ear against a shoulder. The concern feels uncomfortable, prickly. He doesn’t want to lie, but he doesn’t want to be honest either, and it’s a weird dynamic, so different from what they used to have.

But that’s what time does.

“I’m... eh?”

Kyle raises his eyebrows. Stan smiles, thin and unsure, and doesn’t know how else to put it.

He’s _fine_. Beside the crush, he’s been doing good, been doing _fine_ . And this dumb, stupid hard-on is not going to ruin that. It is _not_.

“Really,” he continues. “I’m not bad, it’s just- something’s bothering me. That’s all.”

Kyle narrows his eyes. He looks beautiful, really. Curly red hair and a sharp nose, and clever, intense eyes. He looks like something vengeful, against the backdrop of white snow. Stan can’t help but wonders how the fuck he ended up with so many good-looking friends.

“And what’s bothering you?” Kyle asks, and sometimes Stan wonders if Kyle only asks because they grew up together. If the only reason Kyle sticks around, talks to him, is that they used to be Super Best Friends.

Because they aren’t that anymore. That’s for sure.

Stan shakes his head. “It’s- nothing big. Just school stuff,” and that’s not really a _lie_ , because Mr. Cohen is a teacher, and teachers are at school, ergo: school stuff.

Kyle gives. Stan can see it, in the way he drops his shoulders a bit, and the way his eyes softens, and Stan’s grateful, seriously, because Kyle can be such an ass sometimes. Can be too nosy, too curious, and this is something Stan would like to keep under wrap.

“Fine,” Kyle cranes his neck. Looks over Stan’s shoulder, and Stan doesn’t have to turn to know Cartman and Kenny is walking towards now. He can read it easily enough on Kyle’s face, in the way his expression both softens and sharpens. “If you need help-”

“I’m fine,” Stan interrupts, smiles. Gently kicks his boot against Kyle’s. “Go kiss your ugly boyfriend.”

Kyle rolls his eyes. Kicks back, and his cheeks are dusted with colour, as he sidesteps Stan and power-walks over to greet Cartman.

It’s been over a year, now, since the two got together, and Stan still doesn’t understand it _at all_.

“Hey,” Kenny says, is suddenly _right there_ at Stan’s elbow. His hair is a mess, as it usually is, and he’s got a piece of toast in hand, melted butter on his lips. Ms. Cartman’s work, probably.

Stan taps his elbow against Kenny’s chest, ignores the urge to look at Kenny’s lips and the way they shine in the light, like he’s wearing lip gloss instead of just being a pig. “Hey.”

The air’s cold. Stan’s breath mists into the air, hangs there, and Kenny’s a warm presence beside him. Familiar. Safe.

Stan wonders how much of that is instincts. How much of his friendship with Kenny is based on the alpha-omega dynamic, and the thought stings. Scrapes at him, rough and sharp, and apparently he’s not quite as _fine_ as he said.

An arm wrap around his neck. Kenny pulls him close, and when Stan turns his head, they’re nearly nose-to-nose.

“You okay?” Kenny asks, and he sounds so _open_.

Stan’s gut churns. He thinks of slick on his thighs and the warnings his mom had given him, the _don’t sleep with anyone till you’re older_ , and all the other horror stories, and apparently this is just one of those days.

He sighs.

“Nah,” he says, not bothering with lying. “Slept wrong, I think.”

Kenny squeezes his shoulder. He’s warm and comforting, and Stan can’t quite care about the _maybe our friendship isn’t real_ thing, because fuck that. It feels real. Feels solid.

He reaches up and squeezes Kenny’s arm, does nothing to hide the smile on his face.

* * *

_**you okay?** _

_yeah_

_thanks ken_

* * *

The classroom door seems bigger than usual.

Stan hesitates. Stops some feet away from it, hand curled around the strap of his bag, and his stomach turns.

Kyle and Cartman both disappear inside- they’re arguing, as they always are, voices heated and pointed, and Kenny, trailing behind them, stops to turn to him.

“You coming?”

Stan thinks of his dream, a shiver over his skin. Has no clue how he’s going to make it through this.

“Yeah,” he says, hitches his bag up. Follows Kenny into the classroom, stomach rolling.

He sits down. Pulls out his notebook, his papers, and slouches down in his seat. He’d like to think he’d do better today. That he’ll be able to focus on what Mr. Cohen is _saying_ , but there’s already butterflies in his stomach, and anxious excitement shuddering at his spine.

Kyle and Cartman are whisper-arguing. Stan leans in his seat, listens half-heartedly. Kenny’s doodling something in his notes, pen scratching across paper. The classroom is quiet with noise, and Stan lets himself zone out, breath even in his chest.

He’ll get through this. He’ll be able to focus on math, ignore Mr. Cohen’s shapely ass and big hands, and-

Stan’s face flushes. He presses his palm to his cheek, hunches even further in his seat. The teacher isn’t even here yet, and _already_ he’s off, fantasting like a dumbass.

“Hey,” and Kenny’s leaning into his shoulder, voice pitched to a whisper. “You gonna be okay?”

Stan glares at him out of the corner of his eye. Refuses to answer.

Kenny’s smile is apologetic, but his eyes are amused. “Dude, it’ll be fine. It’s just math.”

 _Yes_ , Stan doesn’t say. _And I’m utter garbage at math_.

Kenny leans back in his seat. Kyle shouts something at Cartman. The door opens.

There’s no immediate hush. The classroom quiets bit by bit, as Mr. Cohen walks to the desk, bag in hand. The noise only falls away completely when Mr. Cohen sits his bag down, turns to the class, and claps his hands together.

“Good morning class,” he greets, and Stan had forgotten how _delicious_ his voice is, because fuck. It sinks into his stomach, warms it up, and Stan knows his face is warm.

“Good morning,” the class echoes back, and Stan only just manages to add his voice to the mix. He can’t quite look away from Mr. Cohen’s lips.

“Now, following up on yesterday’s lesson-” the words fade out. Stan stops paying attention, because his mind is wandering, distracted by the way Mr. Cohen’s lips move. And it doesn’t help that the dream is suddenly replaying itself in his brain, in vivid colours, and Stan sinks into his seat. Can’t stop himself.

Because he’s thinking about Mr. Cohen pushing his legs apart, pressing his face to Stan’s slit, and eating him out, and his gut is shivering.

“-Mr. Marsh?”

Stan jumps. His knees slams into the desk, tears away the dream-faded pleasure that had been teasing at his nerves, and he bites down on his lip, swallows down a curse.

The class is looking at him.

Stan’s already warm face ticks up in temperature, and he must be red in the cheek, ears flaming- he straightens out, smiles sheepishly at Mr. Cohen.

“Yeah?”

Mr. Cohen raises an eyebrow. His eyes are captivating.

“Can you answer the question, Mr. Marsh?”

Stan’s stomach rolls. Embarrassment battles with the urge to shiver from hearing his last name from Mr. Cohen, and this is _actual torture_.

“N- no, sir.”

Mr. Cohen’s face is impassive. His eyes slides from Stan’s head to his sneakers peeking out behind the desk, and Stan squirms, taps his fingers uncomfortably on the table.

“I see. Please see me after class, Mr. Marsh.”

Stan jolts. Mr. Cohen turns away, gestures to the chalkboard, and Stan’s mouth is agape, because _what_?

What. _What_??

He turns to Kenny. Cartman’s snickering and Kyle’s elbowing him, but Kenny’s face is sympathetic.

Stan gestures at Mr. Cohen’s back. A harsh snap of his hands. A very obvious _what the fuck_ gesture.

Kenny shrugs. He smiles, crooked, and says, without words, _what can you do_?

Stan huffs. Turns back around, sinks down in his chair. Tries really, really, hard not to dwell on the fact that he is _fucked_.

* * *

Kenny’s the last one to leave the classroom. He leaves with a crooked, encouraging smile, and closes the door behind him.

And then Stan’s alone with Mr. Cohen.

He shifts uncomfortably. Hitches his bag up his shoulder, fingers curling around the strap, and he can’t quite make himself _look_ at Mr. Cohen.

“Mr. Marsh,” Mr. Cohen’s voice is calm. “You are struggling with math, correct?”

Stan blinks. Looks up from his sneakers, and Mr. Cohen’s meets his gaze head on, locks their eyes together. Stan shivers.

“I- yeah.”

His mouth is dry.

Mr. Cohen nods. “And is that why you are zone out in my class?”

Stan’s face flushes. _Yes_ , he wants to say, but his throat won’t work, the words _won’t come_ , so instead he stares down at his sneakers. Feels the heat climb up to his ears.

Mr. Cohen doesn’t say anything. His gaze is heavy. Stan’s stomach turns, squirms together.

Footsteps. Stan’s skin prickles- Mr. Cohen’s shadow falls over him, wraps around him, and Stan doesn’t dare look up, because he _knows_ Mr. Cohen is close enough to touch, but if he keeps his head down, maybe-

A hand touches his chin. Tips his head up.

“What else could possibly be so distracting, Mr. Marsh?”

Mr. Cohen’s eyes burns. They’re intense, sharp, and Stan’s breath catches in his throat, sticks there. His head feels full. Mr. Cohen’s skin burns against his.

What can Stan say?

Mr. Cohen leans in- he’s close enough now that Stan can smell his scent, pine and metal, and he can’t help himself. He inhales, and he’s swaying closer, eyes fluttering closed.

Mr. Cohen breathes in too; Stan can hear it, knows he’s scenting him, and it makes his gut squirm, makes the spot between his legs twinge.

In the back of his mind, a part of him is shouting. _This is stupid_ , it screams, but it’s distant, drowned out by the way his stomach is heated and the way Mr. Cohen’s touch feels.

“Mr. Marsh,” and Mr. Cohen’s voice is soft, silken. “You are threading a dangerous path.”

 _I know_ , Stan thinks.

A thumb slides over his lip- presses against the corner of his mouth. Stan opens his eyes, meets Mr. Cohen’s gaze.

His eyes are dark.

“No one would have to know,” Stan says, and his voice is a croak, and _fuck_ , he doesn’t know why he says that. Doesn’t know what pushes him to it- maybe it’s the way he aches, or the way Mr. Cohen’s scent smells, or the way his touch burns. Maybe he’s just a fourteen year old teenager who has no fucking clue.

And just like that, Mr. Cohen seems to decide. He leans in, shifts his hand to cup Stan’s cheek, and kisses him.

It’s soft. Teeth pull gently at his lower lip, tug his mouth closer, and Stan’s been kissed before, he _has_ , but right now he can’t do anything but meet Mr. Cohen’s kiss, keep his mouth open and let a tongue explore his mouth, warm and wet and skin-shivering.

Stan moans. There’s spit between their mouths, and teeth on skin, and Stan’s cannot keep up at all.

And then, just as sudden as it happened, Mr. Cohen’s gone.

Stan reels. He staggers back, bumps into the desk, and he’s panting. There’s spit on his lips. He wonders, distantly, if they’re red.

He looks up at Mr. Cohen; peeks up at him through a bowed head, and his heart is beating hard in his chest, railing against his ribs, and Mr. Cohen’s got a thumb against his lips, gaze thoughtful.

Silence falls over them. Stan wrestles with his breathing until he cools down, breat falling into something close to even. Mr. Cohen’s gaze stays on him, heavy, and Stan resists the urge to squirm.

His mouth feels empty.

“I think…” and Mr. Cohen’s voice is soft, thoughtful. Like silk over skin. “Perhaps it would be best if you were given private lessons, Mr. Marsh.”

He smiles. Stan’s heart stops in his chest.

“To help you with your math, of course.”

And Stan, naive and running high on hormones, smiles back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more A/B/O stuff, more Stan being Gay as Hell, and not dealing with it
> 
> i kind of wasn't purposefully planning to have Kyman as a background pairing, but i somehow always end up smushing them together when i'm doing Stenny? their relationship isn't really going to be important, though they'll show up more as we go on. obviously
> 
> also thanks a ton to everyone who's left kudos, and anonchan for the comment. you the best!


End file.
